by Tara Basi
Peter didn’t like this scrutiny. Did he know this wasn’t real?
“The blast threw you clear,” the Suit, as Horacio, half-suggested.
Mary and Peter both gave the Suit the same look. Their unspoken message was obvious: kill the VR now.
“Or,” the Tramp said, looking around the room again, daring anyone to question his right to speculate, “it was all VR. You drugged me, staged the whole thing. A little too well. In reality, I would never have survived that. And now you’re trying to convince me to betray my own Administration, the Trust.”
How bizarre, Peter thought. He thinks this is real and the reality of his death was a VR. How could you argue with that? It immediately became apparent that the Suit had also concluded more thought was required.
The unexpected abruptness of the VR termination nauseated Peter. He was used to being in control. The Suit trembled in its personal breeze, and Bunny was playing dead. Peter sucked down the nausea.
“What was that? Why was he so alert?” the Suit asked.
Peter wondered himself. Is this what a full reanimation was like? A simulacrum of such perfection that no difference could be found between the original and the copy? Could a little sleep do so much? Then, a little lack of sleep, only a few days, could destroy a mind; a few more could kill. When Quattro woke, would she be more Kiki or more Quattro?
Peter couldn’t wait for Bunny to rescue him. “More stable is more real. We’ll need time to direct him. We need the original sleep routines. And Quattro is essential as a control. I don’t have any experience with this technology. Quattro will be our guide.”
The Suit swayed gently. Peter wondered if any more could be read from the Suit’s movements than Bunny’s stillness.
“Zip’s heading for Sediment Town. Odd. Why? We have decided to wait and watch. You’ve got twelve hours, Peter. Use Quattro wisely. Prepare convincing answers for the Tramp. Wake her, Bunny,” the Suit commanded and disappeared before Peter realised that the Orb Industries’ representative had even stopped talking.
Peter turned his gaze towards Quattro. His girl in the silver sarcophagus looked no different; she was as cold and still as the cadaverous Bunny.
Machines don’t do waking up. They’re off or they’re on. Quattro went from dead to alive in less time than it took Peter to be surprised.
Chapter Twenty – Zip and Zara
For a moment, the cold fingers of the Citizen turnstile held her tight and stopped her moving forward. Had the little machines noticed where she’d been and decided against letting her back in? It was a horrible thought; everywhere else had gone to hell.
A simple little click released the tension and the turnstile clunked as she pushed it around and stepped through as a verified citizen. Looking back, she felt sorry for the patiently waiting Pilgrims. Many would still be waiting at the end of the day for their temporary visa, but the vast throng filling the platform seemed relaxed enough. Folding chairs had appeared, flasks were being passed around, fruit was being munched and snacks consumed. They were a happy crowd, off to see their god. What was a little wait compared to that?
“Zip! Zip!”
The voice was familiar. She looked around and spotted a large figure waving at her. It was Bremer, standing just beyond the customs barrier. Zip was surprised to see him. How could he have known she was coming? Why was he here? She nodded to acknowledge his frantic waving. He smiled broadly. Zip didn’t return the gesture; she was suspicious. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
She turned her attention back to the automated customs desk, threw her backpack onto the luggage scanner and stepped through the arch detector. Ahead, a green light flashed over another turnstile. Zip collected her bag and stepped through.
Bremer was waiting on the other side. He looked different, though Zip could not immediately say why. He appeared to be his big usual self, badly dressed in another poorly washed kaftan. He was only missing the senior administrator’s hat, which was to be expected since he’d left the Church. Bremer was beaming happily enough despite Zip’s forced frown. She really wanted to smile. She was glad to see him. He was a nice guy, for an ex-churchman, apart from having had her committed, but Zip was over that; the treatment probably did her some good. It had made her face up to some stuff that couldn’t really be forgotten.
It was irritating that she couldn’t figure out why Bremer looked different.
“Nice dress. You look very pretty. Isn’t it the one you were wearing in my café?”
“What are you doing here?” Zip asked, bluntly, hanging onto her frown.
Bremer looked quite hurt by Zip’s tone. “Didn’t they tell you? I’m coming with you.”
Zip was confused by his answer, though it was suddenly obvious what was different about Bremer. He was wearing new gear-specs, if any kind of gear-specs could be called new. They were bigger and bulkier than his previous wire-rimmed pair. Rather stylish, in a retro sort of way.
“Who? Where?” Zip asked, trying not to stare at his specs.
“The Church asked me to meet you and lend a hand. Didn’t they tell you?”
“No. Why you? You’re not even a churchman anymore.” Zip was not surprised the Church wanted to keep an eye on her while she was searching for Professor Simmons’ recording, only surprised they’d sent Bremer.
“Maybe they thought a familiar face would be reassuring?”
“It isn’t. What’s in it for you?”
“Coffee, and new specs. You know my café needs fresh coffee beans, and I can’t, won’t, go outside the wall. I thought you’d appreciate the company and the help. It sounds like fun, a real adventure.”
Zip had to smile. Bremer had no idea. The specs were probably beaming everything back to Paris and boosted to work down in Sediment Town.
“Fun? Have you ever been to Sediment Town?”
Now it was Bremer’s turn to frown. “Sediment Town? Never heard of it.”
Zip sighed and shrugged. There was no point arguing. If she rejected Bremer’s assistance, they’d only send somebody else. Most likely someone less appealing and more threatening. Besides, Bremer’s Café B sorely needed some fresh coffee.
“If you’re coming, we’ll have to get you some proper gear. You’ll melt in that outfit.”
“Melt?”
Zip ignored Bremer and consulted the Net to find listings for industrial clothing suppliers. Luckily, there was one on their way, some thirty levels below their feet.
In an anonymous lift heading deep underground, she quizzed Bremer about what exactly the Church had told him.
“Director Pompidou told me we’d be recovering a priceless Church relic, long thought lost. It sounded very exciting. A bit Lara-like.”
Zip wondered if Pompidou was Thick or Thin and what on earth Bremer was talking about. “Lara?”
“Croft? I thought you were into the old stuff, games and graphic novels.”
Zip shook her head. “Never mind. The director was telling the truth. We are after a relic. The less you know the better. After this is done, collect your coffee and get home. OK?”
Bremer’s brow crinkled. “Sure. Of course.”
The lift deposited the pair in a grimy industrial sector. Here the corridors were wider and taller to accommodate the big vehicles that trundled up and down collecting and delivering bus-sized boxes. Odours of burning gears mixed with oily stone-dust reminded Zip of all the small towns she had watched being trampled by war machines. And it was hot. Streaks of grease and assorted muck decorated the walls, like the hurriedly sprayed protest graffiti left by rebel heretics in a desolate and flattened Mexico City. Far overhead, the grimy ceiling was black with soot. In the distance, a big rumbling monster, belching dirty-white smoke, was headed in their direction. She calmed her breathing; it wasn’t a killer droid, just a straddle carrier with a cargo of containers in its belly. They were safe, it wouldn’t run them over, but Zip wasn’t happy about being sprayed with tyre run-off when it careered past. She was still wearing Pip’s
dress. The enforced trip to Paris had already taken its toll on the delicate piece of Italian haute couture.
“Come on, Bremer, it’s just down here.”
“The relic?”
She set off at a trot to the outfitters before the big carrier swept past.
“It’s very hot down here. Don’t they have ventilators?” Bremer whined as he struggled to keep up.
Zip shook her head. The poor man had no idea how hot it was going to get.
As her Headgear had predicted, a lone entrance appeared in the dirty wall ahead. There were no signs on the door, only a video intercom. It lit up as she brought her face close to the screen. After a momentary delay, a grizzled old face with more lines than a cracked mirror appeared on the screen. “Hello, gorgeous. Are you lost?”
An odd idea, being lost in Net London. Your exact location, down to the millimetre in three dimensions, was always known. “We need some mining gear, and there’s a dirty-big straddle carrier coming this way, so let us in.”
With a clunk, the door unlocked. Zip pushed it open and dragged a heavily panting Bremer after her. Inside, the space was simultaneously cramped and massive. All around, towering warehouse racks flew up to a ceiling far above their heads. Squeezed between the tall walls of shelves ran the narrowest of gaps that stretched into the distance till the gap disappeared amongst the forest of towers. She and Bremer were standing in a small space. Directly ahead was a high counter, battered and stained by years of service. Sitting on the other side was the old man. He had to be a hundred years old, and the years had not been good to him. A ponderous hunch clung to his back, bending him so far over, his gnarled chin nearly rested on the countertop. The three of them, and the counter, occupied less space than a king-size bed. The rest of the massive warehouse was filled with overloaded shelves crammed with a ramshackle collection of battered boxes and bulging bags.
His body might be decrepit, but his eyes were exceptionally lively, devouring Zip and her dress. “Is that real, a real Versace?”
The old man’s question caught her by surprise, and then his breath hit her like a kick in the stomach. The thick, warm odour was appalling, worse than rotten, maggot-infested kimchi. She gagged, and Bremer made a horrible dry-retching noise.
The old man giggled. “Sorry, not used to real visitors. My avatar’s lovely, has breath like champagne and strawberries.” Reaching under the counter, he fumbled around for a moment before pulling on a kind of half gasmask that covered only his mouth. “Better?”
Zip hesitated to breathe, then tentatively sipped at the air. The terrible reek was dissipating. She nodded. “Sorry, but that was awful. Are you ill?”
“No. Is it? Is it Versace?” he eagerly asked, returning to his surprising first inquiry.
“Yes, it is. Most people wouldn’t know that.”
“Thought so. Haute couture is a passion of mine. Now, what do you need?”
Zip gaped incredulously at the ancient hunchback, with his half gasmask, overalls covered in grime and the face of an ugly cadaver. Shaking her head, Zip got back to business.
“My friend needs mining gear: full thermal suit, anti-vibe boots and smart earplugs. Oh, and we’ll need a couple of hydration packs as well.”
The ancient one nodded. That’s all he did. Zip was about to repeat her request when she detected movement way up in the shelf work. The sight shook her badly even though she only saw a brief flash of bright metal from a thin leg vanishing into the racks. It could easily have been Creep’s leg. The murderous AI had killed her. Images of being revived and waking up to see it sitting on her chest still haunted her. The old man’s warehouse spiders were probably harmless and silently fetching what they wanted.
“I’ve never had sex, you know. Not with a real woman.”
Startled, Zip stopped anxiously scanning the racking and turned back to look at the proprietor. Without warning, the whole place trembled gently, as though a minor earthquake had hit. The towering racks wobbled slightly, but nothing was dislodged, and the old man didn’t seem to notice the momentary shock. The straddle carrier had passed by.
The old man was still eating her up with his eyes. “Never even thought about it till you walked in. Think I’ll give it a try.”
Zip tried to smile and nodded supportively. Thankfully, before he could elaborate, a pair of little spider machines arrived with big wire baskets on their backs, overloaded with parcels.
“Got a few suit sizes for your friend to try. Not sure what’ll fit him.”
Zip gingerly grabbed a couple of parcels from the spider’s backs and tossed them towards Bremer, who was hanging back by the exit. “Try these on.”
Bremer awkwardly caught one. The others bounced off him and fell onto the dusty floor. Not wishing to start another surreal conversation with the proprietor, Zip concentrated on watching Bremer struggling into ever larger thermal suits until one finally enclosed his bulk without making him look like a giant sausage. Finding boots that fitted proved easier. Zip advised Bremer to keep his new gear on and helped him attach the hydration unit to his back. Then she got herself dressed in the gear she got in Paris and pulled on the second hydration pack.
The owner stayed silent throughout the fitting, until Zip let Bremer pay with the Church’s money.
“Real sex in a thermal suit. You’re a classy lady and you’re a lucky fella. I’ve got to try the real thing. Industries and the Church will be finishing us all off soon. You got the right idea. Do it while you can.” He winked.
The polite smile froze on Zip’s face. For a very few moments, she’d actually forgotten about the coming war. They turned and headed quickly out of the warehouse.
Bremer struggled after her, still getting to grips with his new outfit. He looked like a poor spaceman in a cheap suit. “Do I really need all this stuff? Where are we going? The Thermal Mines?” he asked, unable to hide his rising anxiety.
“I already told you, Sediment Town,” she answered, more harshly than Bremer deserved. Zip did and didn’t want to get this all over with. A note from herself was going to tell her why Zara attempted suicide. It was hard to imagine how the outcome could be a good one. At least she’d know.
A lift that would take them down to the old tunnels leading to Sediment Town was a hundred metres away. Once inside, Zip checked her Headgear timer. The Church’s deadline was ticking closer. Nothing could be allowed to happen to Alice and the girls. Simmons’ Record had to be found.
As soon as the lift doors opened, she set off at a trot. Bremer’s questions and complaints were ignored as they headed into the earth’s guts, along roughly hacked tunnels and down rickety ladders. Last time, the trek had almost cooked her alive. A thermal suit turned it into a dour journey that took less than an hour.
As far as Bremer was concerned, they might as well have been trekking naked across the wastes beyond the wall. He’d never been outside London. The stories of what lay beyond the wall were frightening enough. Way down here, below London proper, he probably felt as if he’d passed under the wall and emerged in the hell beyond. Zip guessed that the Church’s coffee had lost its appeal in the dark underground. It was likely that only the thought of being alone and lost in the maze of terrifying rock tunnels kept him racing to keep up.
Right now, Zip didn’t feel bad about the way she was treating Bremer. She offered him not a word of comfort or a gesture of encouragement as they barrelled down the warrens with their shimmering walls of burning rock. As the town, her suicide note and Professor Simmons’ Record came ever closer, he’d become the Church, their threats, their war plans, the root of the coming conflagration that could swallow up London and everyone in it.
The Sediment Town door keeper was expecting Zip but not Bremer. “He’s with me,” got them inside after a long delay and probably a lot of silent Headgear exchanges with Q.
“He’s waiting for you with that shiny monster in the town bar. And you, big guy, if you wanna get out of here, you’d better behave.”
Brem
er nodded more vigorously in response than Zip would have thought possible in a thermal suit.
“Monster?” Bremer asked, as he staggered after Zip, his head constantly twisting as he took in his surroundings.
“Keep quiet, whatever happens, unless the Church has something to say. Got it?”
“Sure. I just want to go home.”
Despite his thick-soled, anti-vibe boots, Bremer fell over a number of times before he got the hang of keeping his feet.
Sediment Town hadn’t changed. It was still a ramshackle collection of scrap reaching almost to the rocky roof of the giant cavern. Picking up the pace, Zip headed down the dry and dusty main street towards the bar where Zara’s last message was waiting for her.
Inside the saloon, a single burning point of starlight twinkled at her from the depths of its gloomy interior. It had immediately caught Zip’s attention as the airlock door thudded close behind her. It had to be the Quartermaster, sitting at the same makeshift table she’d found him at on her last visit. Mathew, the monster, was nowhere to be seen. The same barman behind the tyre-bar appeared to be the only other occupant. Whatever Sediment townsfolk did for fun, in the absence of a reliable Net connection, it wasn’t socialising in the only bar in town.
Despite the Church’s ever-ticking deadline, Zip wanted to take a moment. The suit had kept her relatively cool, but she was still soaked in sweat and tired of its bulk. She climbed out of her thermal prison and threw it over an old soap box masquerading as a chair. Zip wiped her face with her hands, flicking shiny beads of perspiration onto the dusty stone floor. Her tail whipped around her back, shaking more bright drops into the air. The diamonds of sweat fell and joined the other rapidly evaporating spots of moisture. A dark ring encircled her feet in a sweaty halo. Zip stepped out of it and approached the bar.
“A clean towel, the good water. He’s paying,” Zip said, pointing at Bremer with her tail.